


we are the shadows screaming "take us now."

by notquitegucci (AllieKitaguchi)



Series: Gendry and Arya in Season 8 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x03 spoilers, Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I have no excuse for this, Post-Battle, Post-Battle of Winterfell, The Long Night, Title is taken from a song, bran stark and his weird unnerving stare, david and dan won't give this to us so this is my gift to all of you, i just really love gendry and arya okay, if you want something done you gotta do it yourself, post the battle of winterfell, season 8 episode 3 spoilers, spoilers for season 8 episode 3, the author wrote this after waking up from a nap, this is what i deserve so i wrote it myself, yes it's by pierce the veil leave me alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieKitaguchi/pseuds/notquitegucci
Summary: The dead fell.The dead fell, and Gendry’s heart was racing, pounding so hard inside of his chest that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Silence crept across the courtyard and the sound of his heart beating only got louder. Puffs of air left his lips in tiny, gasping breaths as he stared down at the mountain of bodies below.Next to him, Tormund, the ginger wildling who had somehow wound up next to him atop the heap, spun in a circle, surveying. Across the courtyard, Gendry could hear someone shout, “What is this?”“Is this a trick?” Someone else responded.“He did it,” Tormund breathed. His voice was as soft as a whisper. Gendry turned to him, his heart still pounding in his chest and his fingers still wrapped around his hammer so tightly that he could seldom tell where his skin began and the shaft ended. Tormund’s blue eyes turned to him, wide, joyous. “That bloody crow did it.”Gendry couldn’t speak.





	we are the shadows screaming "take us now."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

      The dead fell.

      The dead fell, and Gendry’s heart was racing, pounding so hard inside of his chest that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Silence crept across the courtyard and the sound of his heart beating only got louder. Puffs of air left his lips in tiny, gasping breaths as he stared down at the mountain of bodies below.

      Next to him, Tormund, the ginger wildling who had somehow wound up next to him atop the heap, spun in a circle, surveying. Across the courtyard, Gendry could hear someone shout, “What is this?”

      “Is this a trick?” Someone else responded.

      “He did it,” Tormund breathed. His voice was as soft as a whisper. Gendry turned to him, his heart still pounding in his chest and his fingers still wrapped around his hammer so tightly that he could seldom tell where his skin began and the shaft ended. Tormund’s blue eyes turned to him, wide, joyous. “That bloody crow did it.”

      Gendry couldn’t speak.

      “Is it over?” Someone on the ground asked, the barest trace of hope seeping into the words.

      “Jon Snow must’ve killed the Night King!” Tormund announced loudly. Murmurs filled the crowd, and no one seemed to believe it. The living stared at the corpses on the ground, waiting for them to rise. When several moments had passed, the murmurs grew louder and louder until the crowd was cheering and hollering.

      Tormund barked out a laugh, walloping Gendry on the back before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. Gendry’s whole body was alight with fire—he was sweating, and it felt like his blood was steaming underneath his skin. He wanted to scratch and claw at his flesh, desperate to relieve the heat.

      There was only a beat of happiness across the courtyard before it was swallowed up by shouts. Names came flying through the air in varying tones—begging, pleading, sorrowful, joyful. Bodies crashed together in the snow and blood as friends reunited and wails picked up across the castle as corpses were unmasked and unearthed amidst the rubble.

      Gendry watched, unable to move from atop the fixture he and Tormund had climbed on top of. He saw Ser Brienne of Tarth, the she-Knight, as she embraced the Kingslayer atop the walls of the castle, her faithful squire, Podrick, watching with a fondness in his kind eyes. The two broke apart, eyes shining with unshed tears.

      Gendry’s heart was still racing.

      His body moved on its own accord, his knees and legs stiff as he staggered down from his elevated perch. Tormund helped him the rest of the way, but his chattering went over Gendry’s head and fell upon deaf ears. Gendry’s eyes, as pale blue as the summer sky, moved across the scene on the ground.

      There were so many corpses. The dead that had arrived and the those that had died in the battle were meshed together on the field. Varying states of decay and decomposition stared back at him, some with lifeless eyes and some with gaping, black sockets. The smell seemed to hit him first as his adrenaline crashed.

      Shit and piss and blood and sweat all hit his nose at once and he gagged into the back of his hand. Unconsciously, his lips parted to allow him to breathe through his mouth. He only noticed that his hands were shaking when the blades of his hammer starting trembling in his line of vision.

      He adjusted his grip, his fingers moving slowly and stiffly, like they had been frozen solid with ice. He stared down at the corpse of little Lyanna Mormont, her body entangled with a giant’s. She had died valiantly, fighting until her very last breath, and Gendry had expected nothing less from her.

      It was as his senses started returning to him that he remembered to take a deep breath. He was just a boy, standing as a survivor amidst a battle. He was a boy, born in Flea Bottom to a woman with yellow hair and a fat, uncouth King for a father. He was just a boy, but he had survived the Great War.

      His legs started moving before he was sure what was happening, climbing the staircases near the sides of the castle. Gendry refused to look down, refused to see who he was stepping over, to see whose blood was caked along the bottom of his shoes, to see how many of his friends had perished in the fight.

      There was only one thing on his mind as he moved.

      She had been on top of the wall, just like him, alongside her sister. He had seen her, briefly, before the Dothraki had been defeated and the real battle began. Her face had been cool, collected, and utterly calm in the face of inevitable, unstoppable death. Her eyes, the color of a winter storm, had been trained solely on the darkness below, waiting for the fight.

      Gendry hadn’t seen her since.

      He hadn’t seen her when he had been down in the courtyard, after the dead had fallen and his eyes had immediately tilted upwards, scanning the stone and rubble for her familiar frame. He refused to believe the worst and instead kept his mind blank as he climbed to the top of the castle and started moving along the walls.

      He passed Ser Brienne, Lord Jaime, and Podrick, who all looked pleased to see him go by. None of them tried to stop him and the Kingslayer had a look in his eye that was filled with understanding. Gendry refused to ponder on what exactly it was that Jaime understood, and kept moving.

      He stumbled around for what felt like hours. Every fallen body he passed made his heart beat a little bit harder. Most of the bodies were too big to be her, so he swallowed as he stepped around them, eyes scanning for her dark hair. He was nearing a section of the wall that seemed littered with bodies when he stepped on something.

      His heart stopped.

      Her staff, the one she had challenged him to make in the forge, lay discarded at his feet. It stared innocently up at him, unknowing of the rush of emotions that ripped through his body at the sight of it. He bent with trembling fingers and picked up the staff by the shaft, the blades wavering as his hands shook.

      The tips were caked in blood and it was clear the staff had done some damage. Gendry took another long moment to stare down at the weapon before his eyes dropped the bodies around him. He dropped the staff, pawing through the corpses like a man bewitched. There was a whining sound in his ears and he realized belatedly that it was him.

      He didn’t find her.

      His heart was racing again. The lack of body filled him with hope, hope that she had escaped this area of the castle and gotten somewhere safe. But the reminder that nowhere was safe had his body seizing with fear. If she had gotten somewhere else, she had left her staff behind, leaving her nearly defenseless.

      He stood at the top of the wall, peering down into the masses below. He grabbed her staff as he stormed back down to the ground level. This time, he checked every body he passed, determined to not find her. Once he made it back to the courtyard, he spun around, unsure of where to start.

      “Gendry!” Gendry whipped around. The Hound emerged from the walls of the castle, his face bloody and sweating. The Hound approached him, and Gendry could hardly move. The Hound’s eyes fell to the staff grasped loosely in Gendry’s fingers. His face contorted. “The girl?” He asked gruffly.

      “I don’t…” Gendry couldn’t get the words out. His throat was scratchy and dry, and he could taste blood on his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was his or not. “I can’t find her.”

      “The last I saw her, the Red Woman sent her out.” The Hound grumbled.

      “The Red Woman?” Gendry asked, his body freezing. “What did the Red Woman want with her?”

      “I don’t fucking know,” The Hound huffed. “Said some shit to her about the God of Death and the little brat took off running. Fucking left us behind to die. I haven’t seen her since.”

      Gendry’s heart was racing again.

      “She… she—fuck!” Gendry threw his hammer down, taking a moment’s pause to enjoy in the resounding thud it made when it hit the dirt and snow. He pulled her staff closer to his body.

      “Lad.” The Hound said, and his voice was unusually quiet.

      “Don’t.” His tone made Gendry’s skin crawl. When Gendry looked up again, the Hound was swimming in his vision. Hot tears tracked down his cheeks and Gendry slowly realized he was crying. “I’m going to find her.”

      The Hound was quiet for a moment before he nodded, once. “I’ll help you look.”

      Gendry and the Hound were digging through a pile of bodies when a figure approached from the side. Gendry didn’t look up, but Clegane did, finding Ser Brienne’s unnerving stare fixed upon him. Ser Brienne and the Hound stared each other down for a minute of silence before she cleared her throat.

      “The Starks?”

      Gendry’s lips trembled as he continued to sort through the dead. He heard the Hound shift behind him as he stood. “Haven’t seen ‘em.”

      “Lady Sansa was in the crypts with Lord Tyrion. Ser Jaime’s gone to find them.” She explained, her tone gentle. “You haven’t seen—?”

      “No.” Gendry said resolutely. He turned to face the larger woman. “We haven’t.”

      Understanding flickered across her kind face. She swallowed and nodded. “I’ll help you look.”

      “She wasn’t…” Gendry started. He stopped and took a breath, trying to force himself to calm down. “She wasn’t on the wall, so I thought she might’ve made her way down here.”

      “She’s quick,” Ser Brienne noted. “I never saw her leave.”

      Gendry didn’t respond and the three of them went back to rummaging through the bodies. They split up, checking separate piles across the courtyard. A commotion occurred only a moment or two later and Gendry turned, anxious, only to be disappointed when he realized that it was just the people from the crypts.

      Lady Sansa led the pack, Lord Tyrion and Lord Jaime right behind her. The survivors clamored out into the crowd and wails took up the air once more as the women and children searched for their fathers, husbands, and brothers. There was blood on Lady Sansa’s face and her fingers trembled, but she held her head high as she walked.

      She strode straight towards him and her eyes never left his—blue skies meeting blue storms. Gendry straightened when she approached, and the Lady’s eyes finally left him to drift down to his hands, where Gendry was still clutching the staff in a white-knuckled grip. Her steps faltered.

      Her eyes shot back up to his and he could see she was fighting a wave of emotions. Lady Sansa swallowed and closed her eyes for a brief moment, regaining her composure. She blew out a breath and reopened her eyes, staring straight at Gendry. “My sister? My brothers?”

      Gendry was unable to speak. He opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out. Ser Brienne took pity on him and stepped forward, drawing Lady Sansa’s attention. “We haven’t seen them, my Lady. We’re… searching now.”

      Ser Brienne paused at the word searching and the hesitation didn’t go unnoticed by warden of the North. Lady Sansa’s lips puckered, and she nodded rapidly, her eyes welling with unshed tears. Lord Tyrion reached for her hand and she took it without looking at him, squeezing his fingers in her grip.

      “What about Queen Daenerys?” Tyrion asked hesitantly. “Where are the dragons?”

      “I’m here.”

      They all turned as the Dragon Queen stumbled in through the gate. Her pristine white garments were soaked in blood and dirt. Her face, usually impassive and stoic, was streaked with tears and mud. Lord Tyrion took half a step towards her, faltering as his face filled with concern. “My Lady?”

      “Ser Jorah is dead.” She stated monotonously. “He died trying to protect me.”

      “I’m so sorry, my Lady.” Missandei, who had followed Lady Sansa from the crypts over to where Gendry stood, spoke softly to her Queen, wrapping her arms around the smaller woman’s shoulders. Queen Daenerys sagged against her, her pale eyes vacant as she stared at something none of them could see.

      “I couldn’t… I couldn’t carry him back,” She muttered. “I had to leave him there. I left him out there, with all of _them_ , and I couldn’t bring him back.”

      “He died valiantly, your Grace,” Ser Brienne said, silencing Queen Daenerys’ rambling. Her voice was firm, but kind. “With honor.”

      “Yes, he did.” Queen Daenerys nodded against Missandei’s chest. Her voice came out like a broken sob. She sniffled for a second while the rest of them stood, frozen, surrounded by the dead. After a moment, the Dragon Queen swallowed and straightened up and wiped away the tears from her cheeks. “Where is Jon?”

      “We haven’t seen them, your Grace.” Ser Brienne said. Gendry was getting really tired of that answer. “We were searching now.”

      “He wouldn’t be here,” Queen Daenerys said, straightening up. She flattened her hair back from her face, eyes sharpening as she gained control over her emotions. “He was headed to the Godswood.”

      “To Bran.” Lord Jaime added, nodding. “That makes sense.”

      “He did it, didn’t he?” Queen Daenerys asked softly. “He stopped all of this?”

      “We assume so, your Grace,” Ser Brienne stated. “They all just… collapsed. That would’ve only happened if—”

      “If Jon succeeded.” Queen Daenerys finished.

      “Yes, your Grace.” Lady Brienne bowed her head, nodding slightly.

      The Dragon Queen took a second to survey the area. Her light eyes flittered over the carnage on the ground and she turned back to Missandei. “Let everyone know that we’ll be collecting our men from the field so that they can be—”

      Shouts sounded at the gate, cutting off the Queen’s request. They all turned as Tormund ran across the field to where Jon Snow came limping into view, pushing Bran Stark in his wheelchair. Tormund almost took Jon out as he tackled him to the snow and Gendry heard a relieved sigh leave Lady Sansa and the Dragon Queen’s lips.

      They moved as a unit, making their way to Jon and Bran. Gendry’s heart clenched when he didn’t see familiar grey eyes and a slight frame behind Jon. He forced the thoughts from his head. They would find her, he would make sure of it. Tormund gripped Jon by the shoulders, beaming at him as he shook the smaller man.

      “You bloody bastard! You did it!” He shouted. All around, cheers went up across the courtyard as everyone became aware of their presence. Jon’s face was stoic as he accepted the hug from the wildling. Lady Sansa was quick to hug Bran, bending down to wrap her arms around him.

      “I’m glad you’re alright,” She whispered quietly to him, tears shining in her eyes. Bran didn’t respond, continuing to stare at her with his unnerving gaze. Lady Sansa didn’t seem bothered by the lack of response as she turned to Jon, pulling him into a tight hug when Tormund released him. “You too, Jon.”

      “It seems you saved us all.” Queen Daenerys commented to Jon, smiling slightly at him as he hugged his sister. Jon’s eyes were haunted and he shook his head at the Queen’s remarks.

      “It wasn’t me.”

      Silence fell across them.

      “What?”

      Jon shook his head, black hair whipping around his shoulders. He was the dirtiest of them all, his skin covered in grime and blood from head to toe. He met Queen Daenerys’ gaze head on. “It wasn’t me. I failed. I had a chance and I failed.”

      “Then who—?”

      “Arya.”

      Gendry realized belatedly that he was the one who had spoken. Everything had stopped around him. He could no longer hear what the others were saying, could no longer smell the dead, could no longer feel the snow crunching under his shoes as he moved. His mind was white and all he could focus on was the figure in front of him.

      Arya Stark stood at the mouth of the gate, bloody and bruised, but _alive._

      Her stormy eyes were fixed on him and so many expressions flickered across her face that he couldn’t even pinpoint one. Her lower lip was trembling, almost imperceptibly, but Gendry had spent hours upon hours staring at her mouth, so he caught the gesture. Her posture was completely still and rigid, like she was afraid to move.

      _He_ was moving, he realized, as her figure grew closer and closer. His mouth formed her name, but no sound came out. He took a deep breath and tried again, this time muttering, “Arya,” so softly he could barely hear it himself. She inhaled sharply at the sound of her name falling from his lips.

      She jolted suddenly, as if struck by lightning, and started moving towards him. The corners of her mouth tilted upward just slightly as she whispered, “Gendry.”

      He started running.

      They met in the middle and he scooped her up into the air, holding her so closely that he could feel her heart racing against his chest. Her arms clenched around his neck and she buried her face in the curve of his throat. He could feel her tears as she sobbed into him, her whole body shaking as he held her.

      Tears burned down his cheeks and he gripped onto her, still holding her off of the ground. He adjusted his grip, letting his free hand come up to clutch at the back of her head, fingers tangling in her dirty, matted hair. He pressed his face against the skin of her collarbone, letting her pulse pound underneath his lips.

      He gently lowered her until her feet touched the ground but refused to release her. Her arms slipped from his neck and circled around his waist instead, her nimble fingers skimming over his chest, checking for injuries, eerily similar to the way she had done in the hours before the battle had begun.

      She was completely engulfed in his arms, tucked against his chest, with his face pressed into the top of her head. He could feel her body trembling as she held on to him, though her sobs seemed to have subsided. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, whispering, “I thought I had lost you,” into her dark hair.

      A broken laugh tore out of her throat and she pulled her face out of his chest to stare up at him. “And I thought I had lost you.”

      Gendry was surprised when a laugh bubbled out of his mouth. “You should know better than that, milady. I’m too stubborn to kill.”

      Arya tossed her head back and laughed. For once, she didn’t correct him. She stared up at him, eyes wide and filled with relief and happiness. He brought his hand up to the side of her face, cupping her cheek in his palm. His thumb stroked away the tears that had escaped from her eyes, tracing gently across her cheeks.

      Arya’s eyes darted across his face, taking in every bump, bruise, and bloody stain she could see. She mirrored his pose, letting her fingers drift across his cheekbone. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Just a scratch.”

      She nodded, trusting him. Her hand fell back against his chest, resting directly over his heart. His eyes hesitantly left hers to survey the rest of her body. When she realized that he was staring at the cut on her forehead, she gently said, “I’m alright.”

      Arya leaned up on her toes and pressed her forehead against his, her eyes falling shut. He closed his own eyes too, reveling in the feel of having her in his arms alive and whole. Perhaps it was the adrenaline wearing off or maybe he’d just been hit one too many times in the head, but he tilted his head down and kissed her.

      Arya didn’t seem surprised. She pressed back up against him, needy and incessant, as her hand wandered back up to cup his face. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and sucked hard, pulling a gasp from her. He kissed her again, once more, gentler than before. He pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers again.

      He opened his eyes just in time to see hers flutter open, her dark lashes revealing her piercing grey gaze. She looked slightly dazed as she stared up at him, the hint of a smile playing at her reddened lips. Gendry swept a few loose strands of hair back from her face, lightly brushing his nose against hers.

      “You’re not hurt anywhere else?” He asked, gaze drifting down her small stature for any visible wounds.

      Arya shook her head. “I promise.”

      “Are you lying to me, milady?” His tone was wary as he met her gaze again.

      Arya had the gall to roll her eyes at him. “Don’t call me that.”

      Gendry grinned down at her. “What should I call you then, _milady_?”

      “Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” Bran Stark answered from behind them. It was then that Gendry realized that other people were still there. He straightened slightly from Arya’s hold, turning to look back at the others. Varying expressions of shock, surprise, and understanding stared back at him.

      Jon Snow and Lady Sansa both looked like they’d been hit in the face with a shovel, mouths open and eyebrows raised. Lord Jaime only nodded. Ser Brienne and the Hound were both staring at him, neither approving nor disapproving, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Even Lord Tyrion looked surprised.

      He suspected the surprise had more to do with Arya than it did with him. When he glanced back down, Arya’s features had smoothed back into the collected mask that she always wore, and Gendry mourned the loss of her openness. Arya stepped away from his hold somewhat, but when Gendry made a noise of protest, she took his hand with a small smirk.

      But then Bran’s words caught up with him.

      “Wait, what?” He asked, gaze shifting from Arya, to Bran, and back.

      “It wasn’t me who defeated the Night King.” Jon said, tone as solemn and somber as he’d ever heard it.

      Gendry was confused, only for a moment, before it all clicked.

      Arya smirked up at him, grey eyes twinkling, and with the hand that wasn’t holding his, pulled out her Valyrian steel dagger. “Still think I’m just another rich girl?” Gendry couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of his chest as he swept Arya up into his arms again, hugging her against him. She slapped him on the back, embarrassed. “Gendry! Let me down!”

      “You killed the Night King.” He breathed, setting her down in front of him.

      “I did.” She nodded. Her tone caught his attention, sounding nervous to his ears, as if she was worried of what he might think.

      “Of course you did.” Gendry laughed. “You’re the only person I know stubborn enough to kill the Night King on your own.”

      “You don’t seem surprised.” Arya mused, head tilting slightly, as she stared up at him, wondering.

      “I’m not,” He scoffed. “I’ve always had faith in you.”

      Arya didn’t have a response to that, but her lips parted in surprised happiness. She smiled, a soft, shy smile, one that would typically look so out of place on her face. A throat cleared behind them again and Arya and Gendry shifted once more, turning to look back at the others, who were watching them, amused.

      “Arya,” Lady Sansa said. Her tone was hesitant, almost regretful, as if she didn’t want to pull Arya away but physically couldn’t stop herself, when she said, “I’m glad you’re alive.”

      Arya didn’t respond, choosing to cross the distance between them in a few short bounds as she engulfed her sister in a tight embrace. Gendry’s side felt cold without her there, but he forced back the urge to pull her back to his arms and keep her there forever as he let the others greet her.

      Arya hugged only Lady Sansa and Ser Brienne, nodding her head to the rest. The Hound and Arya shared a peculiar look, one filled with unspoken words. They came to an understanding as Arya dipped her head in a nod to him before she moved back to Gendry’s side, coming to standing directly next to him.

      Jon raised a dark brow. “We’ll talk about this, yeah?”

      Gendry swallowed as Arya snorted. “I just killed the Night King, Jon. I think I can handle myself.”

      Gendry couldn’t’ve stopped the swell of pride welling up in his chest even if he wanted to. He wanted to reach for Arya, but the weight in his hand made him glance down. He was still holding her staff. Gendry coughed and held the weapon to Arya, stating, “I guess you’ll be needing a new one.”

      Arya laughed, startled. She took the staff from his hands and twirled it lightly between her fingers. “I suppose so,” She mused, watching the way it sliced through the air. She turned and glanced back up at him, eyes glinting mischievously. “Good thing I happen to know a pretty decent blacksmith.”

      “Oh, I’m pretty decent, am I?” Gendry asked, eyebrow cocked, pretending to be offended.

      She grinned lazily up at him. “You’re alright.”

      Gendry beamed down at her, his heart no longer hammering in his chest. His hand found hers again and he squeezed her fingers. She squeezed them back, her gaze never leaving his. There was something peaceful and serene in her eyes and it was almost as if all of her troubles had been lifted from her shoulders.

      “I love you, Arry.” He told her softly, unable to contain the vows any longer.

      The use of her old nickname made her smile a real smile, one that took up her whole face and lit her eyes up, making her look like the young girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago when they were nothing but children. “I love you too, Gendry. Even if you are a stupid, bull-headed, idiot.”

      Gendry threw his head back and laughed until it hurt.  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm so glad to see so many people enjoying this story! I'd be more than happy to expand on this story/world/ship, so please let me know if you'd like to read more!
> 
> I’m thinking about maybe rewriting this scene from Arya’s POV, so please tell me if you’d be interested in reading that!
> 
> If you want to talk more about Game of Thrones or Arya/Gendry, you can find me on tumblr (alliekitaguchi.tumblr.com/ask) and on twitter @allie_kitaguchi! Also, feel free to send me prompts on either!
> 
> \- A


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